


loose tongues, wicked hands

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: yule gift fics [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Finger Sucking, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Massage, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 11:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: “Jaskier?”“I like your hands,” Jaskier blurts out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: yule gift fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038730
Comments: 57
Kudos: 650





	loose tongues, wicked hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [childoffantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/childoffantasy/gifts).



> i was supposed to post this yesterday but i had to get covid tested so it's fine
> 
> finally!!! hand kink for my lovely goldie. this was supposed to be done months ago but i'm the worst so now it's a yule present lmao. love you babe :D

It happens, for the first time, one night after a particularly lively performance.

Geralt wasn’t present for most of it; a nightwraith had taken up his time, though she was luckily easy to dispatch. He’d only caught the end of the performance, when Jaskier was standing on a table in the middle of the tavern and stomping along with his audience to his _third_ encore of Toss A Coin.

Now, though, the candles are burning low and most everyone else has likely gone to sleep. Jaskier, though, is animatedly recalling the missed performance for Geralt, who is grunting and smiling as Jaskier flaps his hands about and bows dramatically around the room.

He doesn’t exactly know _how_ it happens. Or, really, _what_ happens; one moment, he’s wincing and shaking his hand out – cramp from the overuse of the performance, nothing he’s not dealt with a hundred, a thousand times – and then the next, he’s being pulled down to the bed by that hand.

Geralt is holding his hand.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice alarmingly soft _very_ suddenly.

The Witcher grunts, but it’s more dismissive than anything. He arranges Jaskier’s hand around – gone limp now with shock – until his fingers are straight, the back of it cupped in Geralt’s palm. With his other hand, Geralt gently traces along the lines of Jaskier’s palm, where the delicate muscles join and the bones stick out slightly from the skin.

Jaskier gulps. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. He traces the entirety of Jaskier’s hand, intensely focused, until he’s satisfied about – something, Jaskier isn’t quite sure of…well, anything, right now. Geralt leans to the side, still holding on to Jaskier’s hand with one finger curled around his wrist, and digs around in a nearby pack for a moment. When he returns, he has a little pot of salve in his hand.

It’s medicinal, Jaskier knows that much; one of the few proper medicines Geralt carries. Jaskier doesn’t know much else, though he does know what the herbs that go into it look like, as he’s been sent foraging a handful of times.

Geralt opens the pot with one hand, scoops a dollop out onto Jaskier’s palm, and returns to his tracing, this time spreading the salve around. It’s a little cold, and tingles a bit, but overall it’s rather pleasant. Jaskier tries to let go of the odd tension in his arms and shoulders.

He’s still confused, but he can see very clearly that Geralt is trying to help. He probably noticed the cramp, is all. The Witcher isn’t exactly a man of many words, and Jaskier is, by now, rather used to his blunt and silent way of showing his care.

Slowly, the tracing moves to more intentional touches, following the lines of muscles more closely. A massage, really, and it gets gradually deeper, until Geralt is using both hands, thumbs pushing rhythmically into the fleshy parts of Jaskier’s palm. He starts to move Jaskier’s hand around, making sure to massage every bit of his palm, clear down to his wrist, and up once more.

It feels…wonderful. Jaskier bites his lip to hold back a soft moan, and squeezes his eyes shut. Geralt is still very focused, looking only at where he’s massaging Jaskier’s hand; it’s…a bit much to take in, is all.

Jaskier is…hard. Or, halfway there at least.

He tries to ignore that.

After several long, wonderful minutes of working every single tension out of Jaskier’s palm, Geralt moves to his fingers. The touch is gentler, here, but no less wonderful for it. Geralt works the salve carefully into every inch of Jaskier’s hand, from wrist to fingertip, including the webbing between each finger, until there’s nothing left on his skin, everything soaked in.

Jaskier’s hand feels better than it has in _years_. He slits his eyes open when Geralt finally drops his hands to find the Witcher looking at him expectantly, palm still outstretched. It takes a moment for Jaskier to grasp what he wants, but it clicks eventually. He makes a small, embarrassed noise, and places his other hand into Geralt’s.

The Witcher smiles. It’s small, and nearly hidden behind the curtain of his untied hair, but it’s there. Jaskier’s heart rate practically doubles, and he tries to hide the sudden intake of breath. He can’t be sure if he’s successful in that, but Geralt doesn’t say anything nor give him any suspicious looks, so he tries to relax once more.

This massage is just as good as the first. Jaskier can’t help the little sounds that slip from him, this time, his right hand so much more sore than his left. He hadn’t even realized that was the case until Geralt started. Each deep push into the tissue hurts at the same time it feels amazing; Jaskier has never received a hand massage this detailed. He finds himself wanting it more.

“Does this happen often?” Geralt asks quietly. Jaskier nearly doesn’t catch it, so distracted with the pleasant sensation of the Witcher’s callused thumbs pressing into his palm in soothing circles.

He startles a little when the words settle. “Oh,” he gasps. “Oh – no, not…not terribly often. Sometimes. Usually just after long performances.”

“What do you usually do?”

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder, careful not to disturb the ongoing, still _very distracting_ , hand massage. “Just rest, usually,” he answers. “There are a few stretches, but I’m notoriously terrible at remembering to use them.”

Geralt huffs, amused, and the massage continues to Jaskier’s fingers and the rest of his hand like before. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s still half-hard and his blood is still up; in a moment, Geralt’s attention will be refocused to him instead of just his hands, and then he’ll have to come up with an excuse.

Nothing is coming to him.

Fuck.

“Jaskier?”

“I like your hands,” Jaskier blurts out, wide-eyed, and Geralt’s brows raise nearly to his hairline. Jaskier snatches his hands back to cover his face. “ _Fuck_.”

“Oh?” Geralt asks, and when Jaskier peeks from between his fingers, he’s looking at his own hands curiously. “…why?”

Jaskier blinks and slowly lowers his hands back to his lap. “Uh,” he flounders for a moment, several thoughts running through his head that are _not appropriate_ (not that…anything he ever thinks is appropriate, but). He finally settles upon, “They’re strong.” That doesn’t have _too_ many connotations. He thinks.

Geralt hums. He still hasn’t looked up from his hands. “Yes,” he agrees. “So are yours.”

“In a vastly different way.” Jaskier looks at Geralt’s hands, too. At this point, he’s practically memorized them; he looks at them often, studies the way they move gracefully despite their bulk and the scars, the evidence of breaks in the slight crookedness of knuckles. Distracted a little as Geralt wriggles his fingers, Jaskier finds himself blurting out even more. “I like the way they look,” he says, and he sounds wanting even to his own ears. “Like that you’re so gentle with them, even with as strong as you are.”

He _squeaks_ when he realizes what has tumbled out of his mouth, hands flying up to his mouth this time. Geralt finally looks up at him, head tilted to the side curiously.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.”

Jaskier finds himself uncovering his mouth to whisper, “What?” even though he doesn’t really want to.

“You’re – ” Geralt starts, stops, frowns for a moment, then continues, “ – you find them _attractive_.”

Continuing with the theme of the night, Jaskier is unable to stop himself from announcing, “I find _you_ attractive. Just in general.”

Heat rushes to his cheeks, flaming, and he groans and covers his face all over again. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t – it’s not a _lie,_ but I know you don’t – ”

“Know I don’t what?”

Jaskier feels his ears heat to match his cheeks. “…see me the same,” he finishes, so quietly no one but a Witcher would be able to hear it.

Geralt _snorts._ And then snorts again, and then laughs, and _keeps_ laughing, the absolute _ass._ Jaskier takes his hands away from his face, frowning, still bright red but upset, now, and goes to – to do something, to chastise Geralt for making fun of him, or – or _something._

He’s stopped in his tracks entirely when Geralt grabs his wrist and yanks him closer, until their faces are inches apart, and murmurs, “I want to kiss you. Can I?”

Jaskier’s brain melts straight out of his ears. “Uh – fuck, yes,” he manages to stammer, heart jumping into his throat and stomach turning with butterflies and something like apprehension all at once.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers, and then they’re kissing.

It’s soft at first, and chaste, but Jaskier feels like he’s going to explode all the same. And then it deepens, Geralt’s tongue flicking against his lips, the edge of a sharp canine catching the swell of his bottom lip, and he’s _definitely_ going to explode.

At some point, Geralt lets go of his wrist to grab at his waist instead, grip tight but not bruising or uncomfortable, and Jaskier whimpers right into his mouth. Geralt pulls back – barely, Jaskier can still feel the heat of his lips on his – and hums.

“You like my hands,” he murmurs, and Jaskier makes a soft, affirmative noise, catching Geralt’s lip between his teeth.

They kiss for another few moments, one of Geralt’s hands sliding up from Jaskier’s waist to his shoulder, his neck, into his hair. Jaskier pitches forward a little, bringing them closer, his own hands landing on Geralt’s thighs. He can’t resist squeezing them a little, groaning at the feel of hard muscle.

Geralt chuckles, pulling away and turning his face so Jaskier can’t just try to kiss him again. Instead, he ducks his head down and mouths at Jaskier’s throat, soft and wet and sending wracking shivers up and down his spine. “Tell me what you like about them. About me.”

It’s an easy request to fill. Jaskier just lets go of his verbal filter and allows himself to ramble, like usual, but much different this time; it’s not trite drabble or court gossip or song lyrics, it’s the truth. “You’re strong,” he repeats. “But so, so gentle, never hurting anything that doesn’t need to be hurt, always touching me so softly.”

He loses his breath for a moment when Geralt’s grip in his hair tightens, and then moans when Geralt bites at his throat. It’s soft, but enough to _feel,_ and Jaskier slides one hand up Geralt’s thigh to his hip and pulls. Geralt shifts so they’re facing each other more fully, but keeps his attention on Jaskier’s neck.

“What else?” he asks. Jaskier whines.

“You’re – you’re _graceful,_ ” he continues. “Should be impossible for someone so big and muscled to move like you do but it’s not, because I watch you do it all day long, just – you’re fast and you wield a sword like you’re _dancing,_ and when I watch you fight monsters I know I say I’m watching the monster but I _never_ am.”

“You watch me?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier is starting to pant, now, and he’s gone from half-hard to fully hard and throbbing uncomfortably in his breeches. “Watch you all the time. Like to watch you clean and sharpen your swords, or – or when you make your Signs.”

“Do you…imagine anything?” Geralt follows that question with a sucking kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s jaw, a particularly sensitive spot that has Jaskier’s eyes rolling back.

“ _Yes,_ ” he gasps. “Fuck, yes, of course I do.”

Geralt rumbles some kind of sound, not a growl, really, but deep in his chest. It’s almost more of a feeling than a sound. “Tell me.”

Jaskier jerks, cock starting to leak, and whines. “Want you to grab me, want to see bruises in the shape of your fingers. On my thighs, on my wrists – anywhere. Want to suck on them, taste the sweat and sword oil and dirt and whatever else, let you choke me with them – ”

“Fucking _hell,_ Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, and they’re kissing again. It’s mostly teeth this time, Geralt’s canines sharp and threatening except that they’re _not_ threatening. Each little sting of bite makes Jaskier’s cock leak more, makes him desperate. He squeezes at Geralt’s thigh and hip, almost convulsively, whimpering whenever he can pull in the breath to do it.

Geralt breaks the kiss with a soft, sharp sound, and _yanks_ Jaskier’s head back by his hair. Jaskier cries out but doesn’t fight the pull, goes limp for it instead, whining when Geralt immediately bites over his Adam’s apple. It’ll bruise, he can already feel the ache, and a thrill zings through him.

“Did you imagine this?” Geralt asks, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” Jaskier whimpers. “ _Yes._ ”

“Good,” Geralt rumbles. “So did I.”

Before Jaskier can come up with a response to _that,_ Geralt is letting go of his waist and his hair, only to return to pull at his doublet. Jaskier whimpers again and manages to look down between them, where Geralt’s stunningly nimble fingers are pulling open buttons and hooks with absolutely no problems, until the doublet is wide open.

“Off,” Geralt orders, and Jaskier scrambles to pull the offending garment from his arms, tossing it to the floor to be dealt with later. Geralt pushes his shirt up next, eyes burning into Jaskier’s as he drags his sword callouses over the suddenly sensitive skin of Jaskier’s torso. Jaskier bites his lip and tries not to whimper _again;_ he’s only mildly successful, still making high, panting noises between his teeth as Geralt swipes his fingertips over his nipples, along his collarbone. Eventually, the shirt is pushed all the way to his neck and Jaskier reaches up to tug it over his head. It follows the doublet to the floor, and Geralt cups a hand around his shoulder to pull him closer again.

This kiss is slower, deeper, but no less mind-blowing for it. Geralt is kissing him like he has a goal to try and memorize Jaskier’s mouth, tracing his teeth and palate. Jaskier scrambles to find something, _anything_ to hold on to, and finds himself with two fistfuls of Geralt’s shirt. As they kiss, Geralt’s hands trace back down from his shoulders to his chest, teasing over his nipples again before they go down, fingertips dancing over his abs, tracing around his belly button, and then back up to tug lightly at his chest hair.

“F- _fuck,_ ” Jaskier mumbles, pulling back from the kiss to heave in a deep breath. Geralt chuckles and ducks his head, and Jaskier tilts his own back, expecting more biting kisses at his neck, but instead he feels Geralt’s tongue swipe across his right nipple. “ _Oh!_ ”

“Okay?” Geralt murmurs, hot breath sending another round of shivers across Jaskier’s skin.

“Yeah,” Jaskier pants. “Fine, fine, _fuck,_ please.”

He feels the Witcher’s smile just before the kiss is a _bite,_ and he can’t help the high, helpless sound that spills out of him. “ _Geralt!_ ”

Geralt sucks gently at his nipple for a moment before he leans back and blows across the wet skin, making Jaskier shudder even harder. “I like how you say my name,” he says quietly, the heat of the sun behind the soft words. “You make it sound like an endearment all by itself.”

Jaskier chuckles a little, breathless and high on the fact that this is even happening at all. “It _is,_ ” he says. “Fuck, I love you.”

There’s a pause, and Jaskier has just enough time to think, _fuck, I shouldn’t have said that,_ before he’s very suddenly _moving._

His head spins and he shouts a little. He finds himself on his back on the bed, Geralt straddling his hips, curled over him with his forearms on either side of Jaskier’s head.

“Geralt?” he asks, blinking to clear his hazy vision. He finds Geralt looking down at him intensely, pupils blown wide and round, and his hips jerk automatically. He expects Geralt to – well, he doesn’t really know _what,_ but grinding down against him, letting Jaskier feel how hard _he_ is, too, is somehow not on Jaskier’s list of expectations.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Jaskier hisses, throwing his head back to revel in the not-quite-enough friction.

“Say it again,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat.

“I love you,” he says, tipping his head forward again to watch Geralt’s expression.

The Witcher almost looks angry, except for his swollen lips and blown pupils and the hard-on grinding pointedly against Jaskier’s own. At the sound of Jaskier’s voice, the words he’d let slip on accident repeated, Geralt _groans,_ head dropping down to Jaskier’s shoulder. He kisses and nips across the skin, over his neck, until he reaches Jaskier’s ear.

“I…love you, too,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, and Jaskier –

Jaskier comes.

“Fuck, _Geralt!_ ” he shouts, hips jolting so hard he nearly unseats the Witcher. “ _Gods,_ gods, fuck, darling – _Geralt._ ”

When he comes down, he’s panting, vision still swimming a little as he tries to settle back into his body. “I didn’t mean – fuck, that was embarrassing, I – ”

Geralt makes a low, dangerous sound, something dark and possessive, and Jaskier shudders through an aftershock so strong it may as well be another orgasm. “It was _hot,_ ” he interrupts. “Gods, Jaskier, I want to fuck you.”

Jaskier whimpers, hips jerking all over again despite his sensitivity and the sticky mess quickly becoming uncomfortable in his pants. “ _Please._ ”

Another low sound, almost a snarl, and Geralt is climbing off of him. Jaskier goes to protest, but sees that the Witcher is just stripping his clothes and _squeaks,_ quickly fumbling with the laces to his breeches to do the same. He barely gets them off his feet before Geralt is back, shoving between his thighs.

The feeling of his cock, hard as steel and hot, pressing into Jaskier’s hip, sends him _reeling._ “Melitele’s _sake,_ Geralt,” he moans, cock throbbing and twitching painfully as he starts to get hard again. “ _Fuck._ ”

Geralt’s palms smooth over his skin, from his hips to his shoulders and then back down. “Talk to me,” he says. “Want – want to know what you want.”

“ _You,_ ” Jaskier hisses immediately, arching wantonly into the contact with Geralt’s hands. His palms are fire-hot and everything Jaskier has ever wanted. “All of you, anything you want to give me, _fuck._ Your – your _hands,_ Geralt, don’t stop touching me.”

“I won’t,” Geralt promises, one hand sliding down Jaskier’s arm to his own. He entwines their fingers and then brings Jaskier’s hand up, holding it gently against the bed as he leans forward. “I won’t.”

They kiss again, Geralt practically ravaging Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier just lets him, goes slack and willing in his hold, and Geralt growls again. Jaskier can feel the vibration of it against his own chest and shudders.

Slowly, Geralt starts to rock his hips again, grinding his cock into the soft place when Jaskier’s hip meets his thigh. He whimpers for it, throwing his head back and reaching up to grab at Geralt’s back, nails digging in as the friction gets him hard even faster.

Geralt is making quiet, needy little sounds, all pressed against Jaskier’s temple, and Jaskier wants _more,_ wants to hear him lose himself and fall apart.

“What do _you_ want?” he asks, a little slurred. “Want to give it to you, darling.”

Geralt moans and still for a moment, breathing hard. “Want to fuck you,” he repeats. “And – and choke you on my fingers, like you said. Leave bruises so you know you belong to me, so I can trace over them later and watch you shiver.”

The sheer possessiveness in that sentence, the implication that this won’t just be a first time but a _beginning,_ sets Jaskier to whining. He claws at Geralt’s back, fumbles a hand into the Witcher’s long hair to pull him down, close, and kisses him with absolutely no finesse.

He gets a whine for his efforts, so he feels like it’s fine.

As soon as the kiss breaks, Geralt’s tongue is replaced with his fingers, shoving down against Jaskier’s tongue. He drools around them, eyes rolling, and sucks. Exactly like he would at Geralt’s cock, sloppy and wanting, until he gags around the tips at the back of his throat. Geralt whines again, tight and through his teeth, and starts to move them, in and out.

Jaskier lets his eyes slide closed and fully pretends that Geralt’s fingers are his cock, whining and whimpering and choking on them, twisting his tongue. He can taste sweat and dirt and sword oil, some of the medicine Geralt massaged into his hands. It’s awful but it just makes him want more, makes him want to suck until all he can taste is his Witcher’s skin.

“Sweet fucking gods, Jaskier,” Geralt gasps, and tears his fingers away from Jaskier’s mouth just to wrap his hand around Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier keens, still sensitive, and his cock blurts out enough precome to slick Geralt’s palm, too.

“ _More,_ ” Jaskier hisses after barely three strokes. “Want – fuck, finger me open, please.”

Geralt makes a choked noise, hand dropping to Jaskier’s hip and _grabbing,_ tight. It’ll bruise, surely, and even if it doesn’t, Jaskier is sure Geralt will try again soon enough.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he mutters, and then he’s leaning off the bed for his pack, digging around until he pulls a little bottle out. Jaskier has no idea what it is, some kind of oil likely, but he trusts that Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, so he just spreads his legs further, lifts his knees to expose himself. Geralt’s eyes widen a little and he licks his lips.

“Going to _ruin_ you,” he mutters, and Jaskier’s cock jerks.

The first press of a slick finger makes Jaskier gasp. The slight stretch and burn of that finger sinking into him, seeming impossibly long and thick for just a single finger, makes him _wail._ “Geralt, Geralt, _fuck,_ love you – love your hands – _fuck._ ”

Geralt hums and crooks his finger, finding Jaskier’s prostate without even _searching,_ and Jaskier clenches around his knuckle with a weak whimper. Geralt chuckles, the bastard, and starts to move. Jaskier wants to complain but can’t find the breath, too hyperaware of the feeling of Geralt’s finger in his ass, unable to stop himself from picturing it.

“Want – one day, want to watch you,” Jaskier manages to gasp out after a moment, one of Geralt’s callouses catching on his rim and making him shake, “watch you do this, get a mirror and see – see how good your hands look on me, in me.”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt hisses, and a second finger presses at his rim.

Jaskier groans and bears down, squeaking sharply when the very tip of that finger slips inside him, the stretch so intense for a moment his vision goes spotty. It settles, though, and Geralt slowly, slowly works into him, until both fingers are knuckle deep and Jaskier is breathless with it.

“Look so fucking good,” Geralt growls. “You’re so fucking _tight,_ could break a normal man’s fingers with how hard you’re squeezing, _fuck._ Going to clench that hard on my cock?”

The sound that leaves Jaskier is meant to be a yes, but comes out more like a quiet, breathless screech as Geralt crooks his fingers and rubs right across his prostate with merciless precision. Jaskier feels like his lines are blurring, like he’s somehow become light itself, and then the sensation dulls as Geralt finally pulls his fingers out. He whines, bereft, but it cuts off in a choked whimper when those fingers are shoved back into him, no gentleness to be found.

“ _Please,_ ” he gasps, and manages to open his eyes to find Geralt smirking. He looks like a predator, and Jaskier is perfectly happy to be caught in the Witcher’s grasp. “Yes, yes, want – _more,_ darling, Geralt, please.”

“I’ll give you more,” Geralt promises. “Patience, Jaskier.”

Jaskier just whines and lets his head drop back again, hips lifting against Geralt’s hand as if he could force the Witcher to give him more. Geralt chuckles again.

He loses track of time for a bit while Geralt fingers him, those two fingers already feeling like so much as Geralt scissors and twists them. There’s no thought to the sounds pouring out of his mouth, either; he’s loud and unashamed and _rock_ hard, and judging from Geralt’s low growling, he’s just fine with the proceedings.

The third finger slips in almost without him noticing, until it strikes against his prostate and he nearly screams. “ _Fuck,_ Geralt, Geralt, please, want – more, darling, please, want you.”

Geralt snarls and ducks down to suck the head of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. Jaskier whimpers, arching closer, hips jerking involuntarily. He hears a gag and gasps, stilling himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants. “Didn’t mean – ”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

The Witcher winks – _winks –_ and before Jaskier can even take in another breath, takes his whole cock in one smooth, effortless slide, throat a hot, wet constriction.

Jaskier gapes, and then Geralt _swallows,_ over and over again, and Jaskier comes. _Again._ In less than – well, he doesn’t know, but it’s got to be a record of some kind. Geralt will be the death of him.

“ _Melitele’s fucking tits,_ ” he whines, and the world goes spinning and sparkling for an indeterminate amount of time, riding a wave of pleasure so sharp it’s definitely pain, too.

When he comes back down, Geralt’s still got three fingers inside him knuckle-deep, and he’s kissing over Jaskier’s trembling abs and chest. “Fucking hell, Geralt,” he pants, voice a little raspy. That doesn’t bode well for tomorrow, but oh well. “That – where did you learn to do _that_?”

Geralt shrugs and gives a little thrust with his fingers, making Jaskier gasp and clench. “Potions,” he explains. “Can’t gag them back up, but they taste vile. Easy enough trick to master with enough practice.”

“Glad I get to reap the benefits, I guess,” Jaskier manages to wheeze, Geralt’s fingers picking up pace. He’s so sensitive he can practically feel every single callous, but despite the odd, shocky, almost-pain, he just wants more. “Gods, I’m ready, please. Fuck me, Geralt.”

Geralt hums and shoves his fingers inside him again, pushing deep and spreading them, and Jaskier squirms.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants. “Feels – oh, fuck, _please._ ”

“I’m not exactly small.”

“Even _better_ ,” Jaskier nearly sobs it. “ _Please,_ Geralt.”

Geralt hums, clearly thinking, but seems to take Jaskier’s word. His fingers pull out of Jaskier’s hole slowly, _teasingly,_ and Jaskier whines, unable to stop himself from clenching down to try and keep them. Geralt chuckles but doesn’t mention it, instead just opening the oil to pour more into his palm.

Jaskier blinks and tips his head to properly watch as Geralt slicks his cock. _Not small_ , indeed, and Jaskier swallows the sudden flood of excess saliva. _Later,_ he thinks.

Once his cock is sufficiently covered, Geralt leans forward again, but instead of lining up at Jaskier’s hole he shifts Jaskier’s legs until they’re wrapped around him. It puts them close together, faces almost touching, and Jaskier sucks in a breath at being confronted with Geralt’s burning eyes.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he mumbles, and Geralt blinks.

“…I believe you think that,” he murmurs, and Jaskier grins, threading a hand through his hair to yank him down into a kiss.

“Thank you,” he whispers into it, and Geralt makes a vaguely derisive noise, but he’s smiling now, too. They kiss slowly for a moment, Jaskier hyperaware of where Geralt’s cock is swaying and tapping against his inner thigh. He tips his hips up, shifting a little closer, and Geralt grunts when the head of him slides over Jaskier’s balls and taint.

He breaks the kiss and rumbles, “Jaskier,” not _quite_ reprimanding.

“Fuck me, Witcher,” Jaskier replies with a smirk. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, and then finally, _finally_ lines up, the very tip of his cock just resting where Jaskier is swollen and open for him. Jaskier hisses and bites his lip, fighting to keep his eyes open to _watch._ Geralt hums and reaches between them to pull Jaskier’s lip out from the grasp of his teeth. Jaskier lets it go on a little whimper, feeling the way his hole is fluttering against the tip of Geralt’s cock and _wanting._

Geralt’s thumb sinks into his mouth while it’s open, and Jaskier makes a startled sound around it, muffled by the Witcher’s knuckle and how he presses down on Jaskier’s tongue. “Suck,” Geralt orders, and starts to press his cock inside so slowly Jaskier is sure he can count each individual millimeter of skin.

He whines around Geralt’s thumb, but does as he’s told. Geralt watches him intensely, more focused than Jaskier’s ever seen him, and it sends a riotous shiver down his back. Geralt’s slow pace falters when Jaskier squeezes down on him, so Jaskier does it again, again, until Geralt _snarls_ and slams forward.

It’s – a lot, too much all at once, and Jaskier feels tears prick at his eyes, but he reaches up to grab at Geralt’s shoulders, bites down on his thumb, tightens his thighs. There’s _nowhere_ else he wants to be right now, riding the knife-edge of pain with Geralt over him, _inside_ him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, and there’s strain in his voice, matching the trembling tension in his muscles.

Jaskier whimpers around his thumb, sucks harder at it, hips jerking. Geralt’s breath goes out of him with a small, almost squeaking sound, and he moves. Jaskier’s eyes roll so far back into his head he’s certain he can see his brain melting straight out of his ears.

He’s never been as full as he is right now and it’s _heaven._ But he still wants more, wants to be completely consumed, so he grabs at Geralt’s free hand and presses it against himself. It makes Geralt drop down to his elbow, changes the angle just slightly and Jaskier is seeing _stars._

All of the noise he’s making is muffled by Geralt’s thumb, but when Geralt tries to take it away, Jaskier snatches his wrist and shakes his head. Geralt huffs, hips still rocking steady, no interruption in his rhythm _at all_ – Jaskier thinks back, _going to ruin you_ , and he’s never been so excited to be ruined. Instead of taking this thumb away, Geralt uses it to pull Jaskier’s mouth open, until he can shove two additional fingers over his tongue.

Jaskier chokes on the tips of them and clenches down so hard that Geralt whines. His rhythm finally falters, just slightly, and Jaskier claws at his shoulders, heedless of how rough he’s being. Geralt’s a Witcher, he can take it.

“ _Gods,_ Jaskier,” Geralt pants, yanking his fingers back just to replace them with his mouth. Jaskier moans into the kiss, shameless and wild, getting louder and sloppier with each of Geralt’s quick thrusts. Geralt, for his part, is growling right back, sharp teeth catching on the swell of Jaskier’s lip and making him jolt with the sting. “Feel so fucking good, never going to let you out of bed again.”

“ _Please,_ ” Jaskier babbles, half-mindless. He’s hard again, even though he really, _really_ shouldn’t be. Geralt’s touch feels like ice and fire all at once, and _somehow_ he still wants more, wants to come again even though he knows it’ll hurt.

As if reading his mind, Geralt’s hand moves, going from pressing Jaskier’s cock against his belly to holding it, the head nestled into his palm. Jaskier shouts and finds Geralt’s fingers back in his mouth, cutting off the sound. He chokes around them, just slightly, but Geralt doesn’t move or stop and Jaskier makes a garbled mess of a sound, cock flexing where Geralt is gripping it gently.

He loses time for a bit, nothing but sensation as Geralt holds him caught at both ends and in the middle, too, fucking into him relentlessly and making low sounds in response to each of Jaskier’s muffled whines. It isn’t until Geralt’s snug grip on the head of his cock changes to him _massaging_ , callouses catching slightly on the skin, that he really comes back to, just to spiral back out into a whitewash of pleasure and pain. His cock throbs in Geralt’s grip.

The sounds he makes are muffled by Geralt’s fingers still in his mouth, but they’re loud all the same, garbled and slurred as Jaskier drools around Geralt’s knuckles. He’s pleading, sort of, wordlessly – for what, he couldn’t answer.

Geralt, though, seems to have his own wants. “Come for me,” he says. “One more, Jaskier, just like this.”

Jaskier makes a series of noises, tinged with something like panic, but Geralt keeps going, thrusts going sloppy as he massages the head of Jaskier’s cock. The sensation is sharp and too much, _too much,_ but Jaskier just spasms and whines and chokes on Geralt’s fingertips and then _comes._

He hears himself scream, hears Geralt snarl, and then the world goes black.

* * *

His return to wakefulness is slow, almost gentle. He can feel the way Geralt’s body is plastered to his, their chests and hips pressed together, legs tangled. Geralt’s hands are on his face, warm and calloused and tracing his features softly. Jaskier shivers slightly, fingers squeezing where they’re wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders still.

“There you are,” Geralt murmurs. “Sorry.”

Jaskier laughs, and his voice is _ruined,_ oh gods. “Don’t be,” he croaks. His eyes flutter open with a little effort and he finds Geralt’s face nearly as close as the rest of him, yellow eyes more golden in the low light where it filters through the curtain of his hair.

Geralt’s thumbs brush under his eyes, over the curve of his cheek, and Jaskier sighs, eyes fluttering half-closed again. He focuses on the feeling of it, the rough rasp of callouses and the little scars he can feel when Geralt cups his jaw with one large palm. One thumb eventually trails down from his cheek to his mouth, tip tracing over the shape of them before he uses the pad to tug at the bottom one.

Jaskier lets his mouth fall open, tongue flicking out to curl around the first knuckle. Geralt sucks in a sharp breath, pupils going wide, and Jaskier grins a little.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, low and rumbling. Jaskier just lifts his head some so he can suck Geralt’s thumb into his mouth in reply.

The Witcher’s hips jerk a little, and for the first time Jaskier realizes that Geralt is still hard, erection pressed between their hips. He shudders, eyes rolling, and rolls his own hips up. He’ sensitive and worn out, there’s no way he’s coming again, but he sees no reason that Geralt can’t keep going.

He lets go of Geralt’s thumb just long enough to murmur, “Want you to come for me, Geralt.” He ignores the shocky oversensitivity of his own cock and pulls Geralt’s thumb back into his mouth.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt groans. “I – you – ”

The words dissolve into a garbled curse when Jaskier shifts and Geralt’s cock slides down, grinding over where he’s still wet and open. Jaskier grins around Geralt’s knuckle and wiggles his hips.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks, low and nearly slurred. Jaskier nods, but Geralt huffs and takes his thumb away, despite the displeased little sound Jaskier makes. “Words.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Jaskier answers, voice cracking a little. Geralt makes a soft, desperate little sound and his hips jerk, the head of his cock pressing _almost_ inside Jaskier before it slides away, smearing precum over Jaskier’s ass cheek. “Fuck me full, Geralt.”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt whines, eyes screwing shut as he shudders hard enough that he shakes Jaskier, shakes the bed. Jaskier moans softly and lifts his hips again, pointedly. Geralt ducks down to kiss him, messy and wet, as he reaches down between them to line up.

Jaskier makes a noise at the first thrust, something high and nearly inhuman. Geralt’s belly slides over his spent cock and it’s too much, sharp and painful, and he reaches up to shove at Geralt’s shoulders.

“What is it? Too much?” Geralt asks, clearly ready to pull back, to stop. Jaskier feels an odd little thrill at it, knowing that Geralt cares so much about his comfort, about _him._

“Just – too sensitive,” he rasps, gesturing to his cock. “The rest is fine.”

Geralt hums and adjusts, shifting up so he’s balanced on his hands instead, putting space between their torsos. “Better?” he asks, giving a small thrust. Jaskier’s whole body tingles, from scalp to toes, and he groans.

“ _Yeah,_ ” he says, bringing his arms up to curl his hands around Geralt’s wrists. “Fuck, yes. Go on.”

Geralt hums again and twists one of his hands until he can thread their fingers together, then pins Jaskier’s hand to the bed that way. Jaskier shudders and jerks his hips up, gasping sharply when it forces Geralt deeper.

Like this, sated and soft, he can focus on the feeling, the _details._ Geralt’s lashes flutter with each thrust, and Jaskier can feel more clearly just how _big_ Geralt is, forcing him open in the best way. He tips his head back with a broken moan, riding the aftershocks of pleasure and sensation of fullness.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers after a moment, “oh, fuck, Jaskier, you – ”

He tips his head up again, finding Geralt looking down at him with his eyes half-lidded and burning. “Me,” he says, and Geralt shivers, biting his lip until it blanches. Jaskier reaches up with his free hand and smooths over where it’s gone white, then tugs lightly until Geralt lets it go. He soothes the red spot with his thumb, looking right into Geralt’s eyes as he does, and he feels the way Geralt’s hips stutter.

“Come for me, Geralt,” he murmurs, and when he pushes his thumb forward Geralt takes it, mouth soft and welcoming. “Just like this.”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt whines, slurred and messy around Jaskier’s thumb tip on his tongue. His thrusts speed up for the space of a breath before he just stops, burying himself as far into Jaskier’s body as he can get like this. Jaskier grunts, legs twitching, and clenches down, again and again and again, milking Geralt for all he’s got. He swears he can _feel_ the heat of it, the mess Geralt makes of his insides, and it sends a spark of pleasure through him like lightning.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Geralt growls, still muffled and slurred with Jaskier’s thumb in his mouth. Jaskier laughs, shivering, and finally pulls his hand away from the Witcher’s mouth. It doesn’t go far, just hooking around the nape of Geralt’s neck to pull him down into a kiss.

Geralt comes easily, bending his spine to ensure he doesn’t press up against Jaskier’s cock, and Jaskier grins into the kiss.

“Love you,” he mumbles, starting to feel stupidly giddy and giggly.

Geralt groans, pressing his face into Jaskier’s neck. “Jaskier,” he huffs, teeth scraping gently over the tendon in Jaskier’s throat. “I love you, too.”

“Mmm. Good.” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand where it’s still pinning him to the bed. “I hope you realize that I’ll be soliciting you for hand massages, now.”

Still pressed against his throat, Geralt huffs a laugh. “Fine by me.”


End file.
